xXx: Extreme Prejudice
by DreamerMatrix
Summary: Xander gets teamed up with a kid who's not just what he seems...
1. NSA, CIA, IRA Lotsa A's

Disclaimer: I do not own copyrights to xXx characters, only to OCs such as Rashka and anyone else I add. What follows is a purely non-commercial piece of fan-fic, written for entertainment values only. Please don't sue.

A/N: Officiality over, this is my first xXx fanfic. It's been in the pipeline for a while, but I only have the one Muse, who is a paranoid schizophrenic with MPD, since I leant Derek, my other muse, to a friend of mine, and he preferred her place. Oh well, you can't have it all.

To those of you who avidly read my stuff, more character self insertion, more humour, and more oblique references that only Blake will get follow. Any way, on with the show.

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The CIA agent was on the floor, blood pouring from a gaping chest wound, before he knew what had hit him. He was the fifth agent they'd lost, but that did nothing to ease his mind as rough hands ran through his pockets, stealing his wallet, taking back the information the agent had stolen from the fortified headquarters of a rebel group that had no name.

The world went black. Mercifully, the agent was unconscious when the axe severed his head from his body.

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Augustus Gibbons, CIA, was annoyed. Extremely annoyed. He'd been trying to contact Xander Cage for over an hour now, but the guy either wasn't home, or was ignoring the phone. Cage was the best the CIA had, but his attitude towards the Agency was the same as his attitude towards life. Cage was a risk taker, and stunt puller. Just last week, Gibbons had seen a new video up on the underground website Xander pulled stunts for. This time, it was some state governor trying to bring so-called Big Brother laws in to place who had been the target, his car stolen and driven off a cliff, a lot like the trick Xander had pulled before he'd been recruited by the CIA.

Now, though, Gibbons needed Xander to know about Spain. The CIA had lost five trained agents to a group there, and he needed Xander on the case. Not just Xander though. Another search of the criminal justice system had brought up another name, perfect for the situation. A youth, little more than a boy, named Alexander Rashka Keller Jonathan Rider. Rashka, for short.

Gibbons looked at the file in front of him again, as Xander's phone rang again and again. Definitely perfect.

"Xander Cage."

Finally, an answer.

"Xander, it's Gibbons."

"Scar-face, I already told you not to call me. Ever."

"Yeah, well, I got a problem, X."

"You rang to tell me what I already know?"

"Nice. But you also have a problem. Grand theft auto, again."

"Gimme a break, Gibbons. The guy was asking for it."

"We have a problem, Xander. Can you be at the Speedway Show in California tomorrow, 10 am? I want to show you somebody."

"You know what, if you told me not to be there, I'd already be on the train."

"Don't play games with me, X. I can still screw you over.

"I'll be there. You'll know when I get there, you always do."

Xander hung up. Gibbons smiled.

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The kid on the Kawasaki ZXR was good, Xander had to give him that, as he waited for Gibbons to show up. No helmet, meaning Xander could see his buzz-cut jet black hair and his clear, piercing blue eyes. Still young though, but very skilled. Shit, the kid was pulling motorcycle tricks that Xander and his crew only dreamed of. Hell, if Scar-face didn't show, Xander would offer the kid a job being filmed for the website. Get himself a break from Jay.

"I see you already found our mark," Augustus said from behind Xander.

"We're gonna kill him?" Xander asked, suspiciously.

"Hell no, X. We're gonna recruit him."

"Recruit him? You mean we're gonna let him kill himself? He can't be more than a year out of high school."

Xander kept his voice hushed so the pair didn't attract attention from the crowd, who were avidly watching the boy match tricks with an older biker.

"He's a lot like you, X. Streetwise, reckless and, most importantly, expendable. A street rat. Totally deniable."

"Nice to know you care."

"I'm sure you'll like him. But he has to pass through selection first. SAS selection."

"Limeys? Waddaya wanna involve them in this shit for?"

"SAS selection is tougher than CIA selection. I want you to go too. Keep an eye on him, help him out. Army training is easier to pin to a country. You get SAS training, you add it to your valuable street smarts, the pair of you are merely newly selected soldiers ready to celebrate with a week in the sunny climes of Espanol before heading home to Blighty with a tan and a mission."

"So what have I got to do?"

"Nothing. Toby's gonna KO him with one of those darts you like so much. Next time you see him, you'll be in the aisle seat next to his window seat, on the plane to England."

Gibbons passed Xander a boarding pass and airline ticket.

"Toby will meet you out there when you pass through training. I'll contact you every night, if you can get Rashka to sneak you out of the barracks."

"Rashka?"

"The kid on the bike. I'll inform him of his lack of choice in the matter when he wakes up. See you in Spain, Xander."

With that, Gibbons walked off.

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Alexander Rashka Keller Jonathan Rider woke up with a pounding headache. A glance at his watch told him it was 24 hours since he'd last looked at his watch. The fact that he was still in his leathers meant he'd been accosted at the Speedway. The fact that he still had his watch meant he'd not been robbed.

He raised his head and looked around, finding himself in a diner. Not too busy either. A suit in one corner, reading the paper and sipping what looked like a glass of orange juice. A guy who looked like he was hunting out of season sat three stools down from where Alex sat at the counter. Another suit, a black guy with a disfiguring scar to the left side of his face, who calmly sipped from his cup as Alex's eyes fell on him. The waitress behind the counter. Four more customers, an old-looking couple and their grown up kids.

Well, he'd woken up in stranger places, that was for sure.

The waitress looked at him, offering him the jug of coffee in her hand. He shook his head, and said, coarsely, too soft for anyone to hear the trace of Irish in his voice, his mouth dry, "A bottle of cola, please. And a glass of ice water."

The waitress complied, and Rashka took a gulp of water. "How did I get here? I was at the Speedway Show." Again, the trace of Irish was barely perceptible, but Gibbons picked up on it.

"Couple of guys brought you in, ten minutes ago. Gave me ten bucks to look after you."

Alex twisted his head to look outside. His bike wasn't there. He frowned, snarling a little, and stood to leave. Which was when hunter boy pointed a gun at him.

"Freeze!" Hunter boy yelled.

Alex froze. He had a gun pointed at him, his brain told him, best he do as he was told. His body, on the other hand, once it caught up, figured his brain was cuckoo and kicked the gun out of the guy's hand, catching it himself and flicking off the safety catch. "Never point a gun at a biker. Or a Provo's son, for that matter."

The gun was suddenly pointed at the scar-faced guy in the corner, who was clapping. "You did much better than the last guy we pulled in here."

"Nice to know," Rashka commented sarcastically. "Where's my bike?"

Scar-face smiled, apparently a rarity for him.

"It's safe," came the answer.

"Then you'd best get it here quick, 'cos I've got places to be."

"I know, Master Rider," Scar-face said. "You're going back to Sandhurst." 


	2. Selection? Yeah right

Disclaimer: I do not own copyrights to xXx characters, only to OCs such as Rashka and anyone else I add. What follows is a purely non-commercial piece of fan-fic, written for entertainment values only. Please don't sue. It also comes to my attention that my Alex Rider is not the only Alex Rider in fiction, and I have therefore added a plot bunny to change his name from now onwards.

A/N: Officiality over, this is my first xXx fanfic. It's been in the pipeline for a while, but I only have the one Muse, who is a paranoid schizophrenic with MPD, since I leant Derek, my other muse, to a friend of mine, and he preferred her place. Oh well, you can't have it all.

To those of you who avidly read my stuff, more character self insertion, more humour, and more oblique references that only Blake will get follow are only to be expected. Anyway it's been more than two years since I updated this, so on with the show

Credenhill, Hereford. It wasn't Sandhurst, which Rashka knew was for Officer training. It was the Headquarters of 21 SAS, a place where he'd never thought to return to. Not that he'd ever been there much; only to watch his dad play inter-squad football. He doubted that counted. What he did know was that Gibbs was pulling some major strings to fast-track himself and Xander through the system. Regular selection and training was six months, and that was what the two Americans- one born, the other by default of visa- were going to get, but neither Rashka nor Xander had the real qualifications to join the SAS. Neither of them was in the American army, never mind the British, although Rashka at least had an Irish accent. He'd fit in a little more than the obviously American Xander.

These were the thoughts going through Rashka's head as he sat in back of the transport truck with twenty other squaddies and Xander. He'd warned the American to keep his mouth shut, and seen that Xander didn't like being ordered around, but Rashka at least had some idea of what British military bureaucracy revolved around. They'd been briefed about their background stories the night before, once they'd gotten over their jetlag. Only the selectors knew they were fakes, and the training was going to be totally real; if they failed they were out, just like any of the other applicants. They weren't going to get it easy just because they were spooks, especially not Rashka. Rashka was only nineteen, and the selectors had been told this, but he'd been given paperwork that upped his age to twenty-four, and stated his name to be Jonathan Keller, a corporal in some corps or the other that none of the other squaddies were from. The same fake rank in the same unit as Xander, who at least got to keep his name and age. Not that Rashka minded. With his Jonathan Keller ID, he could at least get a drink in the USA now. He knew how to keep hold of what he was given.

The truck stopped, jolting Rashka from his thoughts. His head turned so he could look out of the back of the truck, and he smiled wryly as he saw the drizzle that symbolised the British spring time. Turning back to look at Xander, he shook his head and stood to jump down on to the tarmac surface outside the barracks they were being housed in.

"Welcome to hell," he muttered, earning a miscellaneous look from Xander, and a glare from the instructor, who had apparently been saving that line to use himself. Still, whoever said it, it was still true. They were formed up into ranks, something which neither 'spook' liked, and the training began.

One week before the end of training, and here they were. They'd survived, pulling one another along by the sheer competitive nature both had. Rashka could have dropped out at any point, Gibbons had nothing on him worth a damn, but the NSA man knew his target well: give Rashka Keller a challenge, and he'd kill himself trying to prove he could do it. All of which had landed him here, stuck in the middle of the backend of nowhere in ancient boots tied with string, in clothes that made him look like he was half starved, hanging off his slender frame like the sails on the mast of some old aged ship or the other. It was slinging it down with rain, which dribbled down his face despite his shelter, and he swore that if it got any windier, he could undo his great coat and use it and the wind to fly. He jumped on the spot to stay awake in the humid weather, trying not to catch Xander's eye as they both waited for a third team-mate to hurry up and do nothing. It was close to pre-dawn already, and they had another six miles to cross in the next two hours.

"I still say we should leave the guy to catch up," Xander said, his American accent only slightly more British than it had been before. He didn't look happy at all, but then he'd heard the threats the Paras had made as well as anyone else had. This final week was the be all and end all. The older man was as drowsy as Rashka, and much wetter; the water just seemed to drip right off the nineteen year old.

"One more week, X," Rashka said. "One more week, we take what we've learned, and we go cuss out these Spanish cabrons who think they can kill people and get away with it."

In the six months since the speedway show, the Spanish group they were being sent after had taken out another two men. Personally, and here Rashka knew Xander felt the same way, Rashka thought it was dumb of the NSA to keep sending more men in while the best chances of actually cracking this group lay with the two men currently standing around here.

"Besides, they don't allow disloyal anusulos in the SAS. Christ I need a smoke."

Xander looked at Rashka, shaking his head slightly. He still had problems figuring out what made the teen tick, although adrenalin obviously had a lot to do with it. Then there was the random spouting of curses in different languages, dropped into English as if he'd spoken normally. As for the smoking, it wasn't to make himself look cool. Rashka only asked for smokes when it was dark, as if a couple of inches of cancer stick could fend off the monsters lurking in the shadows.

"Those things'll kill you," he told the younger man. "Besides, you've gone the last three weeks without one. Even if we had one, which we don't, you couldn't light it in this weather."

"Yeah, yeah, spoil my fun," Rashka drawled, as their team mate finally finished his personal business. "C'mon, time to not be here. Those troopers'll be after our asses, and we're leaving tracks a blind man could follow. Bloody weather."

Bloody weather, bloody jungle, bloody Gibbons. Neither Rashka nor Xander could bring himself to say it out loud, but Gibbons was a pain in the ass, and a well-connected pain in the ass at that. And he was depending on them not to mess this up; a known criminal, and an ex-army orphan, taking on the unknown might of a Spanish terrorist group that even ETA didn't claim knowledge of. It would have been laughable, to anyone who hadn't seen either of the two at work.

Like they were working now, Xander in the lead, followed by the only real soldier amongst them, one Edward Burgess, with Rashka bringing up the rear. Burgess was a soldier, true, but his observation skills were far from perfect in the field, and he couldn't fight worth a damn. Or at least, he couldn't fight worth a damn against fully trained Paratroopers. Not that Xander and Rashka could either, but at least they could see the buggers coming.

Not this time, though. They reached their 0600 RVP with five minutes to spare, and no Hunter squadron squaddies on their trail. Burgess wolfed down his food as Xander and Rashka were handed the same kind of motorway truck-stop cuisine, with a chocolate bar each to follow up. Following the younger man's lead, Xander slipped his chocolate into a pocket before looking at the map and cursing. Rashka heard the language, and looked at Xander, then at the map, and sighed, deeply.

"Looks like the assholes have got us coming and going," he said, eventually. The next RVP was over open ground, then a river. No decent cover, only one bridge, and no chance of swimming across without being noticed. "We might be back at Credenhill faster than we expected. But let's run for it any way. They might not be expecting us too early."

"Don't we flunk out if we get caught?"

Rashka looked at Burgess and shook his head, rolling his eyes.

"We're not gonna get caught, you muppet," he said. "Ain't no bugger with a tranq gun on the hunter squads."

"Tranq gun? What-?"

"Forget he mentioned it," Xander said. "Or we will have to kill you."

"Maybe I'll kill him any way," Rashka said. "If we get caught waiting around for him to stop asking questions and take the lead. He reminds me a little of Toby."

"You met Toby? Guy needs to get laid," Xander stated, firmly.

"Yeah, don't we all," Rashka shot back, before running off, taking the lead position from Xander.

"Don't leave me in back!" Xander yelled at the teen. "Keller! Dammit! He left me in back!"

Suddenly noticing how quiet it was, Xander took off after his team mates. Jungles only got that quiet when humans were around. The animals shut up, didn't want to be noticed. Didn't want to be hunted.And Xander's yelling would have been heard by somebody, for sure. Time to be gone.


	3. We Don't Need No Education

Disclaimer: I don't own xXx, other than the DVD. Observant readers will have realised that I put a name change for Rashka in the previous chapter, but Alex Rider is not a name I devised either, just in case you didn't know.

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"Where'd you learn that?"

Xander and Rashka ignored Higgins as they kept running towards the final rendezvous point. Behind them were between six and eight somewhat annoyed paratroopers, covered in muck and other unpleasant smelling substances. Makeshift booby traps were not something that could always be relied on, but if you had time then it was quite interesting to view the results. So long as you knew how to run like hell afterwards.

"Next 36 hours is gonna be fun," Rashka said, sarcastically, as they got to the RVP, not answering the initial question. Then, off the look he got from Xander as the older man looked over his shoulder, "36 hours of interrogation, humiliation, sleep deprivation, white noise and violence. Then a week with Toby on the play station, a week boosting cars in New Jersey, and we'll be in sunny Spain before we know it."

"Spain? What?"

"Forget you heard that, Johnny," Xander said. He couldn't actually remember the guy's name, so Johnny would do for the Englishman. He vaguely remembered hearing of a movie called Johnny English. "Or we'll have to kill you."

The man grinned, but the grin faded when he saw that both Xander and Rashka weren't grinning. They weren't even looking at him, but had their hands up. Something hit his across the back of the head, and he dropped to the floor.

"No darts and we'll co-operate," Xander drawled, bending down with Rashka to pick their Higgins up. The man was as heavy as he looked, and Xander was somewhat surprised at how much of the man's weight Rashka took. Then they were led to a truck and had their heads covered and their hands tied. It was time for the rough stuff.

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In Barcelona, another agent was in a world of hurt. NSA Agent Salvador Jacobs had been caught poking his nose into supposedly encrypted files. Half-Spanish on his mother's side, the thirty-five year old didn't look like a secret agent, but he obviously smelled like one. It was the training, the paranoia, the need for rules and procedures, and the ability to follow them, that was what he needed, that was what set him apart from the crowd. His body, when it was located, was not a pleasant sight. Hopefully, the American idiots would give up, but it was doubtful. A shame, really. They could at least have the decency to send someone challenging. It really was getting quite embarrassing. Embarrassingly easy. They were never going to get anywhere like this.

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White noise. It did Rashka's head in. Standing here, stripped to the waist, hands against a wet wall, arms straight in front of him, feet shoulder-width apart, with a bag on his head and freezing cold water cascading over him, he was beginning to wonder if he should just quit now. In his last interrogation session, which he placed an hour and a half in his past, he'd been told that Higgins had quit. He didn't know if he believed that, but he still had another five hours to wait out before play station, car boosts and Spain. His mouth was dry, and he was starting to get bored. He was so close now he could almost taste victory. That and damp cloth-water, which didn't do much to alleviate the dryness in his mouth.

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"What's the sit-rep for our snakes?"

Gibbons looked up from the pictures of Sal Jacobs' body, shaking his head and looking at the clock on the wall next to the big screens.

"We should know in four or five hours," he said. "Then Toby will pick them up when they get back to Britain, and they can reassert their natural personas before going off and playing army boys in Spain."

"Reassert their natural personas?"

"They can relearn their street skills," Gibbons clarified. "Or, rather, they can learn some new ones…"

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Toby was waiting at 21 SAS HQ when Rashka and Xander returned, both looking like they might be in need of a blood splatter dart. Or the narcotic effects of one, any way.

"Boy, you look rough," he said. "Turbulence was bad, huh? The guys here say you need a little more time with them for specialist training. Gibbons didn't OK it yet, but-"

"If Gibbons didn't sign off on it, then we don't need no education," Rashka said, resisting the urge to ram Toby's head into the wall. "Get us out of here, Shavers."

"But- but… Explosives shouldn't be taken lightly, and you don't have field experience and you –"

"And you're enjoying chatting up the WAGs?" Xander suggested. "Wives and Girlfriends, Toby. Of guys who get paid to do the shit I do to stay out of jail. I have field experience, Keller can learn. You can put that MIT degree of yours to some use and teach us, and we can teach you. Useful circle.


	4. Female of the Species

Disclaimer: I don't own xXx, other than the DVD. Observant readers will have realised that I put a name change for Rashka in the previous chapter, but Alex Rider is not a name I devised either, just in case you didn't know.

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"Xander Cage and Rashka Keller?"

The speaker was female, petite, redheaded and Spanish, in a smart suit, and was followed by Gibbons and Toby, who was obviously trying not to drool over his new female object of affection. Another female that the MIT genius had no chance with, just like most other females. Unlike Rashka and Xander, Toby just had no idea of how to deal with females. Three years in an NSA basement designing gadgets hadn't helped much either. The guy was a geek. Like Bill Gates without the money.

Xander and Rashka had been stuck in this studio apartment for the last forty-eight hours. One bathroom, one kitchen, one room. A room barely big enough for the two camp beds and the television-playstation combination they'd been allowed to keep them from going crazy with cabin fever. For two men used to their freedom, it wasn't the best situation ever created. It was more than a little uncomfortable, especially now they were trying to fit five people in the one room, and two of those were dressed more like common thugs than NSA Agents. Unlike the dapper Gibbons, the smartly dressed Toby and the elegant Spaniard, Rashka and Xander were still in a mixture of military garb and street wear. Barefooted, Rashka flipped the game he was playing into pause mode.

Gibbons remained behind the woman, but made the introductions.

"X, Keller, meet Teresa Catalan," the scar-faced agent said, in that annoyingly smug tone he had when he knew he was revealing something new to somebody that they really wouldn't like. "Miss Catalan, I'd like to introduce Xander Cage, Rashka Keller and Toby Shavers."

"Toby Lee Shavers," Toby said, eagerly. If Gibbons hadn't been there, Rashka or Xander would have probably made some crack about exactly why it was that Toby couldn't get laid, but Teresa Catalan was worse. She didn't even look at Toby; she just turned and looked at Gibbons with something akin to disgusted disdain.

"This is the best you have?"

Her sneer was undisguised. Rashka shook his head, muttered a curse that was most definitely not in Spanish, and moved to pick up his controller again, but Gibbons turned the TV off at the mains. The nineteen year old's jaw was open as if to say something, but Xander was grinning too much for Rashka to give him the satisfaction of admitting Gibbons had ruined a near-perfect score.

"They're smart, adaptable, and sixty-seven per cent expendable," Gibbons said, undisturbed by Rashka's glare and Teresa's sneering. Xander replayed the sentence in his head and held up a hand.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," he said. "Sixty-seven per cent expendable? What, we can lose a limb or three, but we've got to keep our brains intact?"

"Now then X, we all know brains aren't your strong point," Gibbons said, sharply. "Toby's going with you. You have one week to make him into a soldier, then you'll be briefed."

"One week?! You have GOT to be kidding me!"


End file.
